


These Are the Tokens I Give Thee

by irisbleufic



Series: Delicate, Dangerous, Obsessed [21]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fairy Tale Logic, Female Character of Color, Gen, In-Laws, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Nygmobblepot Week 2017, Other, POV Fish Mooney, Revisionist Fairy Tale, Unconventional Families, Wizard of Oz References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 12:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12132057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: “Let me see it,” Fish ordered, stepping closer to him, holding out her hand. “Your fabled knife.”Edward took it out of his pocket without blinking, flicking the blade open an inch from her eye.[Can be read as a stand-alone, but falls right in this sequence.  For Day 2:Crossover/AUof Nygmobblepot Week.]





	These Are the Tokens I Give Thee

Fish opened the velvet-lined cedar storage box on Oswald's dressing table. Diverting, to consider the mix-and-match possibilities of the weighty cufflink mess she'd just emptied into her palm.

“I hope you got good wear out of these while you were gone,” she said, tipping them into the box. “Excessive. Don't think handing me these to put away will make me forget the task at hand.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” remarked Oswald, airily, his voice muffled within the wardrobe. “There's a task?”

“You promised me you'd have a look at that hidden album at your first opportunity,” Fish cautioned, snapping the box shut, using the sound to to grab Oswald's attention. She moved over to sit down on the edge of Oswald's flawlessly-made bed. “But you did not.”

“We've been home less than forty-eight hours,” said Oswald, done hanging his suits. “Did you honestly think I'd be up for it after yesterday's execution? Once we got home, Ed wouldn't let me out of—”

“His sight,” Fish finished for him, shifting off the bed with acerbic distaste. “I get it. He's still needy.”

“Ed will always be what he is at his core,” said Oswald, limping over to inspect the job Fish had done with his accessories. “Regardless what medication, patience, and time may improve. I love him.”

“And he loves you,” Fish agreed, folding her arms across the iridescent viridian sateen of her dress. “I had my doubts about...well, not so much his constancy as his _focus_. But I see where it sits.”

“In my lap, usually,” Oswald retorted, clearly enjoying her discomfort. “Why don't you go to him?” he went on, approaching Fish with travel-strained steps, leaning hard on his cane. “Clear the air?”

“I'm going to trust you, Oswald, when you say the two of you talked about what's in that book,” Fish said, approaching the door. “What's in that _letter_. As demons go, Daddy Nashton is rough.”

“I understand who he's hearing when it's the mirror,” said Oswald, unhappily. “That ghost might wear Ed's likeness and speak in Ed's voice, but I know whose words come out of its mouth.”

“Any words of advice before I wander into the lion's den?” Fish asked, stepping into the dim hall.

“Yes!” Oswald called after her, continuing to unpack. “A little encouragement goes a long way!”

“Encouragement, my ass,” Fish muttered under her breath, approaching Edward's fractionally-open door at the end of the hall.

“Oswald?” Edward asked, pulling the door open, several shirts in hand. “I hope you're not— _oh_.”

“Hello,” said Fish, making no move to touch him as they stood stock-still before each other. “May I?”

“You've nearly crossed the threshold,” replied Edward, tetchily, nonetheless gesturing in favor. “Come in.”

Fish closed the door behind her, watching Edward deposit his shirts fussily at the foot of the bed.

“I can hear your voices through the walls,” he said, tone flint-edged in spite of how soft he looked with his hair in wavy disarray and a worn green sweater over his untucked undershirt. “What do you want?”

“You've done a brave thing or two for Oswald this week,” said Fish, calmly. “I wanted to thank you.”

“Can you put those shirts on the second shelf in the wardrobe?” Edward asked, picking through his open suitcase. He draped another impeccably-folded shirt on the pile. “Fish,” he said. “Please?”

“Well spotted,” said Fish, picking up the pile of crisp cotton in both hands, doing as Edward asked. “Here I was beginning to think you'd _never_ realize you can call me by name.”

“Ms. Mooney is also your name,” said Edward, cautiously. “But it's arguably not the most _true_.”

“What do I call you, then?” Fish asked, smoothing the pile flat on the shelf. “Edward, Riddler, or Ed?”

Edward hummed, flipping the suitcase shut. “Depends on the context. Which I imagine you can suss.”

“The gravity of this encounter, _Edward_ ,” Fish insisted, “requires a fairy godmother's touch.”

“You've got the wrong story,” Edward said, all sharp-eyed curiosity, “but I appreciate the thought.”

“Let me see it,” Fish ordered, stepping closer to him, holding out her hand. “Your fabled knife.”

Edward took it out of his pocket without blinking, flicking the blade open an inch from her eye.

“It wouldn't do you any good to take that one,” Fish sighed, gently prying the knife from his hand. “Contrary to popular belief, the replacement doesn't see better.” She tilted the flat of the blade until it caught the windows' stark light. “But what it lacks in clarity, it makes up for in depth.”

“Fail to pass me, and you'll pass only to fail,” Edward said tautly. “Is that what this is? Haven't I—”

“It's an eccentric piece,” said Fish, snapping the knife shut. “Well made, but a touch unbalanced.” She took his hand in her own, turned it over, and pressed the knife into his palm. “No, this isn't a test. It's a visit.”

“What kind of visit?” Edward asked, clutching the knife to his chest. “I have nothing to hide from you.”

“You had plenty more to hide from Oswald,” Fish scolded. “Beneath those boards in the floor. _Tsk_.”

Edward's eyes half-shuttered in fury, but the expression only lasted a heartbeat. “He knows it's there.”

“He also knows what's in it, and he _will_ be asking you to have a look,” Fish replied evenly.

“Fairy godmothers give gifts,” Edward goaded, tapping the knife over his breastbone. “Not advice.”

“I'd get you a better blade than that one for a start,” Fish admitted, grinning. “How would that be?”

As Edward's grip on the switchblade tightened, he pressed it to his lips. “This knife has...history.”

“Whether it's history you should be holding onto is what I question,” Fish replied. “Why keep it?”

“This is the knife Oswald turned on me,” stated Edward, slowly, “and that I turned back again.”

“I've heard all about your little...Florence Nightingale affair,” Fish said with a nod. “Charming.”

“This knife is what I know,” Edward insisted, placing it back in his pocket. “It's what I love.”

“Then may it continue to serve you,” said Fish, in delighted laughter. “How about glass slippers?”

“Silver shoes,” Edward corrected, cracking the barest sliver of a smile. “Wrong story again. Keep up.”

“I'll think of something,” Fish said, turning her back, about to leave. “I missed the wedding, after all.” 

The ancient electrical wiring flickered, and Edward's gasp sucked all of the warmth out of the room.

“Did you leave them?” he asked hopefully. “As per my text. Did you even dare to step off the path?”

“Bermudas and Stargazers both,” Fish swore, turning on the threshold to nod. “Just like you asked.”


End file.
